


Scott, Shackleton and Their Most Extraordinary Adventure

by colisahotnorthernmess



Category: Polar Explorer RPF
Genre: Drinking, Drinking & Talking, Edwardian Period, Enemies to Lovers, Established Relationship, Kissing, M/M, Touching, Undressing, Whiskey & Scotch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-22 20:46:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16605158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colisahotnorthernmess/pseuds/colisahotnorthernmess
Summary: Scott and Shackleton meet for the very last time to discuss Scott's upcoming, and to be ill-fated, Terra Nova expedition to the Pole. They drink whiskey, argue a little and put old rows to bed, before ending up in bed themselves - together. These two men are bound to one another by a unique wanderlust and a lust they pretend not to feel for each other.





	Scott, Shackleton and Their Most Extraordinary Adventure

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2011, during which time I was obsessed with polar exploration and the expeditions of Scott and Shackleton. This fic was intended to be a part of something much larger and was never posted. I recently rediscovered it on an old hard drive.

"I hear Gran is accompanying you on your trip," Shackleton stated, referring to the upcoming Terra Nova expedition.

"Yes. He is an excellent fellow; an expert in the art of ski, you know. A vital member of our team."

"I do know. He sought my advice regarding a Norwegian mission to rival your efforts to reach the Pole. I, _naturally_ , offered my full financial support."

"You vile creature. How could you? Have you no loyalty to the crown?" Scott lashed out.

"There is no glory out there, Robert; it is unattainable without risking life and limb. I care, as you do, for there once again to be a sense of British Empire. But you are a far more precious asset to our beautiful country than an empty mass of barren land in which we might stick our flag first. This much I have learned. There is a war coming and the need for competent naval officers is greater than _ever_."

 _Nobody_ could deny this fact. In fact, Scott himself had showed his willingness on several occasions to be the pillar of navy strength Britain would need him to be come reckoning day. However, science, adventure and the desire to discover and learn would wait for _no_  man, or _army_.

The fact that Shackleton's overwhelming sense of wanderlust was at _least_ as strong as his own created quite a stir of amusement. Scott would have smiled were it not for the fact that he knew the underlying reason for his once-friend's protests. "This is true," he said, laying the trap.

"And," Ernest continued, "We would be bloody fools, all of us, to lose an officer... a man... as thoroughly _decent_ as yourself, out there, in the Antarctic wasteland. Spare a thought for your wife and baby boy, who would miss you terribly were you to pass in such needlessly awful circumstances."

Noting how Con had physically backed himself further and further into the corner, in the same way he had felt mentally pressured by his peer's wide appeal and imposing presence almost ten years ago on the Discovery, the younger of the two placed a palm against the wall, effectively pinning the Captain in a loose embrace. "Spare a thought for poor old Shackles..." he whispered, Irish tones pouring teasingly into Scott's ear as slowly and surely as the Irish malt which had been poured into his glass, "...who might miss you twice as much."

"You're _drunk_ ," Scott exclaimed, smelling the whiskey punch ever-more accrid for each slurred promise of what Shackles would do in return for him if he stayed; accutely aware of how close their faces were - possibly closer than they had been at any point so far - and how hot under the collar he was, the starch of it practically melting under alcohol-laden breath, with those lips poised mere inches away from his neck.

"And you're only trying to halt to my progress so that you can resume where I left off - in the same manner in which you dared to last time," he added. There; he'd said it; he'd broken what had remained unspoken. Up until now he hadn't mentioned Ernest's 'stealing' of his McMurdo Sound base for the Nimrod expedition. But he knew where this was going and he intended to put a stop to it - _this_ time.

"Do you think this is about valour? I nearly _died_ on that return trip, Con. Had I have not been forced to relocate to McMurdo, I would have taken the entire crew with me and several months earlier too."

"Then it is just as well that your wife was satisfied with a - what was it? 'Live donkey over a dead lion'?" Scott sneered at what was such an obvious 'sound-bite' from the far-more media-savvy E. H. Shackleton's book. "Will she be so happy when she also realises you have the brain of an ass?"

If only the taller man had digested the latter part of the sentence, he may have had a reason to retaliate and possibly even strike his rival down for such an outright slur. But time, amongst its many other valuable lessons, had taught Ernest's brain to lie dormant during Con's most infamous tantrums, having took to heart so many of the bitter insults he'd spat out in haste on their travels together on the Southern Journey.

He was rather preoccupied, for now, with the thought of his partner's lovely slender neck, an angry adam's apple bobbing furiously within and the curious way it would compliment the veins bubbling to the surface in line with their owner's rising level of stress. Scott _needed_ to calm down and Shackleton saw this as an _ideal_ starting block; he pursed his lips and grazed them against the smoothness of his cut-throat shave, groaning rather sensually, "It isn't the _only_ attribute of a donkey I possess."

"Don't be so vulgar," Scott stammered with a hint of staccato to his voice. "I couldn't _possibly_ know what you mean." It was only eight o'clock gone and he was already contradicting himself. Oh, dear. Who, _exactly_ , had laid the trap?

"Then allow me to demonstrate," Ernest roared, rolling his large hips forward, crushing Robert against the long length of wall by the window. If he genuinely hadn't realised what he was saying, the crunching together of their wanton groins removed all doubt.

The prey, gazing upwards with his large blue eyes, like a doe on the moors or, more appropriately, the seals they had hunted for meat and blubber during the polar summer, begged for some kind of mercy. He received it in the form of Shackles closing the curtains with his free hand.

They were dressed much as they were in their initial meeting almost a decade ago, in plain tweed jackets and crisp white shirts. On this occasion, however, those same garments were cast onto the floor with surprising ease - the Edwardian morals loosened like the slipped ties and bare skin shamelessly exposed to the elements, representing the blunt desire between these two men, finally unsheathed from its repression. The pipe literally dropped from Scott's mouth.

Ernest's hands were, by now, grasping wildly at Con's undershirt. And he marvelled at the mass of hair surrounding the other man's abdomen, somehow surprised at such a masculine feature of his partner's mostly feminine frame. He was therefore thrilled to find _more_ of it - a pelt as _rich_ the reindeer fur in which they had slept together, discovered upon further investigation of his naked chest.

Never before had he realised how wholly his mind had been forced to fill in the _gaps_ until he realised that he had only ever seen Scott in his full polar attire. As attractive as all the parts he had previously seen, and devoured, were, he was immediately ravenous at the thought of seeing and experiencing all that was unventured. What kind of explorer would he have been if he wasn't?

Dark eyelashes, belonging to Scott, nervously flickered downwards in the same manner of uncertainty that they often did when his judgement was questioned. He had shown a great deal of respect for Shackleton aboard Discovery and some of the crew had raised suspicion at how he, at least initially, seemed to even look up to Shackleton. The secret was: he had done _then_ and he still did _now_. There were few men who could control him and his ways, black dogs and all... but his ex-Lieutenant could. As Oates would turn out to be a master of the ponies, Shackleton was a master of the _Scott_. Kathleen _wasn't_ , he admitted to himself with some sorrow.

Those silky, long and frightfully girlish - frightfully unmanly to some, frightfully beguiling to others, including Shackles - eyelashes flickered downwards once more. And Ernest was sure, at that point, that he had never seen more of an obvious look of 'come hither' in his entire life.

This, coupled with the fact he was already down to the base level of clothing, led him him to take that final, formidable step. All-in-one union suits had been well out of fashion for a while and, as he had already established that the older man was wearing an undershirt, it was inevitable to think he would also be wearing drawers. He said a silent thankyou to the usually conservative and stuffy Scott, and a second to Kathleen for ensuring that her husband was moving with the times. Before Scott could say a silent 'you're welcome' in return, Shackleton's right hand was combing through the tight pubic curls and delving deeply into the Captain's britches.

Robert squealed, but he could not prevent himself from naturally arching into Ernest's touch. And so Shackles kissed him, though only briefly, to give Scott the vital time he would need to assess this situation - not by argument; not by rationalising; but by _gut feeling_ \- which was the method by which he had achieved most success in the field. Such chaste kisses _would_ not last.

They hadn't kissed with such fervour in years, though it seemed like a mere fraction of passing time for their muscle memory. They had a unique, uninhibited way of kissing that they only associated with each other and neither could ever, _ever_ have forgotten those tempting twists of tongue and melding of what would have been heavily cracked lips.

"God," Scott gasped, breathless. "Dear God..." Throughout his life, Con had struggled with his Christianity and had always wished he'd had the same kind of blind religious faith as, say, Dr. Wilson, to rely on in the bleakest times. In his present company, he had never been so _sure_ of the good Lord's existence... even if he did understand that his present company may not be sticking to what the Lord initially had in mind.

The adventurer still held tightly to his beverage, his knuckles a befitting shade of snow white around a tumbler which appeared frosted on the inside, condensation on the glass caused by an obscenely firm and unyielding grip.

Shackles eased the item from his clutches, calmly and, never taking his eyes off of Scott for a second, said huskily, "My bedroom door is ajar."

A terrified glance of Robert Falcon Scott's which said, in the space of a second, "Do we have any choice? Are either of us _strong_ enough to resist?" had Ernest dashing to snuff out the candles of the parlour. Ironically, two men strong enough to endure the hardships of minus 40 degrees centigrade could not even contemplate the notion of battling this lure, which was as enticing as the Pole itself and at least _twice_ as magnetic.

When all Scott wanted to do all this time was brush away that stray strand of fringe away from his ex-Lieutenant's face, reaching to do so the first opportunity he had, unhindered by his own terror, when his hand was suddenly occupied by another, much larger, spade-like hand. In the dim light of a solitary gas lamp (he would no doubt come to blame the quality of air for his most _unorthodox_ behaviour here tonight), he was led, in haste, to a marginally darker space; Shackleton's bedroom - a fear he would absolutely _need_ to conquer, for no _other_ adventure could pose such a challenge.

And, as Shackles beckoned him in, he couldn't help but think that this experience, this _love_ , would steel him for absolutely  _anything_.


End file.
